


My Only Sin Is I Can't Win

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Sex, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:37:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5900344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knows there's something wrong but keeps getting distracted from asking. Castiel's lips might be involved. And some other... skills. (<b>s11 SPOILERS.</b> This is a coda for 11x11.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Only Sin Is I Can't Win

**Author's Note:**

> I REPEAT: **SPOILERS FOR SEASON 11.** Dean is still in the dark, but if you haven't seen up through 11x11: Into The Mystic, then maybe you should wait to read this.
> 
> Title is from “That Man” by Caro Emerald.

The bunker is dark. Cold. It reeks of lives no longer lived, and the dust of decades past. Dean wrinkles his nose against a sneeze as he pads past his brother's door. He hopes Sammy, at least, is able to get some shuteye.

Dean hasn't slept well in weeks.

He feels it, too. Blames the banshee attack on that, but what he blames the fatigue and restlessness on is something he'd rather not contemplate. Not right now, not at ass in the morning with nothing but his mind to keep him company.

His feet carry him down to the garage. His finger finds the light switch by habit, and Dean gazes down at his Baby. The expression on his face feels like a grimace that's trying hard to be a smile. He would smile at her, he would, if he didn't feel so damn doomed.

If he didn't feel like maybe soon, he wouldn't be looking at anything at all.

There's something wrong with him. Dean rubs his chest and feels the persistent hollow ache down below his bones, where a pit has recently opened up and refuses to fill itself. He's tried all the usual methods -- drink, food, sex -- and when those failed, has tried to find something, anything to augment his routine.

Different drink. Something in the drink. The little blue pills he stole; smoking, snorting, anything. But none of it fucking works.

He yanks open Baby's door, lets that old familiar shriek caress his tired bones. She'll hold him, won't she? She's always kept him safe. He slides into the driver's seat and gets his fingers around the wheel. Every groove in the leather brings back memories. Most of them bad. Dean grinds his jaw and sits there, waiting for the flood to subside.

There's always been bad memories. Everybody in this game's got 'em. Sam is better at stamping them down, but even he gets consumed sometimes. Dean's been there for that. Dean was strong for him, for that. And Sam would be here for him if Dean would let him. Dean knows.

He also knows it's none of Sam's damn business how old his brother feels right now.

A sigh paints the inside of the windshield with steam. Dean hadn't realized how cold it got down here. The central heat should be keeping the place regulated, but he knows better than anybody how fidgety that system can be. He'll take a look at it tomorrow.

The garage is enormous. He'd probably be safe to turn the car on for just a minute or two. She's never had A/C, but the heater works like a champ.

Baby's engine roars to life. Dean winces, hand still on the key. He counts the moments as they pass, sure as he's still breathing that Sam will be rushing in any moment to check on the car, to see if someone's stealing her --

He relaxes. Sam's just gonna assume it's Dean.

Breath by breath, he relaxes further, working the tension out of his strained muscles. He tries to keep up with PT like Sam does, using the old-timey gym and taking laps around the bunker making sure to hit plenty of stairs, but lately he just hasn't felt up to it. A familiar frown creases his face. Hasn't felt up to much of anything.

Sleep is stealing in, a fraction at a time. Dean's eyes feel heavy.

He'll just rest them a moment. After all, he's got to remember to turn the car off once his breaths stop fogging up the windshield. Once he's warm.

Just a moment.

He's slipping into a dream full of gold and Sam's smile when the car door is wrenched open, flooding the cab with clear, cold, blessed oxygen.

Dean turns wide eyes to Cas before his next breath seizes his lungs in a fit of coughing. He doubles over, clutching at the door frame. Strong hands brace his shoulders.

“If you're trying to kill yourself,” Castiel says softly, “there are easier ways to go.”

Still coughing, Dean squints up at him. “What?”

“Carbon monoxide. The silent killer?” The angel arches an eyebrow at him. “Or were you just trying to stay warm?”

“Shut up,” Dean hacks. He shakes his head, and lets himself kind of fall out of the car on to chilly concrete. It shocks the nerves in his hands, which should have been able to take more force than that. He wonders briefly if he's becoming arthritic on top of everything else.

Castiel's hand appears in front of his face. Dean takes it, and lets Cas haul him up.

“Not the first time you've pulled my ass out of the fire,” he says with a hefty measure of rue.

“Nor the last,” Castiel says. There's an odd quirk to his lips.

Another thing. Lately, Dean's felt awkward around Cas. Not the usual shades of panic, like when the angel steps too close -- those he's gotten for years, he's used to those. He can almost manage not to look at Castiel's lips when he talks. But this... For some reason, earlier in the records room and now, Dean's instincts go haywire. They're telling him that Cas is dangerous.

But he's _Cas_. Dean's looking at him right now, and he still just looks like Cas. A little tired, maybe. More world-weary. More like he really does get all the references now, like he finds them and humanity a little more lacking because he finally understands. There's a set to his jaw -- to his entire face -- that just wasn't there before. Dean can't put his finger on it. He's not sure if he likes it or not.

The silence stretches too long. Castiel is still looking at Dean like he was earlier, like he can see right through him. It's disconcerting. Dean can't tell if this is a new disconcert, or just the way he's always felt around the angel being amped up by too little sleep and whatever the fuck that was earlier.

His ears are still ringing.

“Why'd you come down here?” he asks. “Gonna try and run her over?”

Castiel smirks. That's new. A good look on him, though. “Wouldn't it be divine if that's all it took.”

“You gotta let me do the honors.”

“A finer vehicle never ground a goddess beneath her wheels,” Castiel says, and gives a little bow to Baby.

Dean can't help laughing. “What's up with you lately, man? You feel kinda... different.”

“Different?” There's a gleam in Castiel's eye. “Or better?”

“Uh.”

“It's okay, you can say it,” Castiel says. “I was a stick in the mud.”

Dean frowns.

“Old-fashioned.”

“Heh. Well...”

The dark head tilts like it always does, but somehow this seems like a parody. Like he's appraising Dean instead. The feeling is there and gone in a flash. The unsettle of it remains.

“Haven't you always said I need to lighten up?”

Wait, now he's getting closer, step by step, backing Dean up against the car. The driver's side door is still open. Dean's shoulders hit the frame and his entire body tenses. Adrenaline zings through his core.

“Cas --”

Castiel presses in closer, something like humor touching his lips. “Dean.”

One more step. Dean has nowhere to go, his calves striking the door well, his knees folding. He sits down hard in the driver's seat. He's suddenly gaping up at Castiel, who leans in a little further. His tie dangles. One hand braces against the door frame.

Then blue eyes narrow. “Dean, you're looking tired,” he says.

“Had a long day.” Dean says on autopilot.

“And you sound hoarse. Are you coming down with something?”

 _Just a case of the willies._ “Haven't been sleeping well.”

Castiel frowns. “And you've been injured.” He leans in even further, elbow against the door frame, to press a gentle thumb along the butterfly suture on Dean's forehead. The site aches. “You and Sam are both so fragile.”

The angel is exuding heat, their proximity a better space heater than any Dean's ever used. Better than Baby's at full blast. He feels a trickle of sweat form and roll on down his temple. Or maybe that's --

Castiel is pressing in on his wound. That's his own blood.

“Cas?” He's got to ask, his voice a bare husk.

The angel's eyes are dark, inches from Dean's.

“So damn fragile.”

His thumb caresses the suture when he closes the distance between them.

Dean blinks. He can see the pores in Castiel's skin, individual shorn hairs in some of them. The ragged edge of a sideburn. And if he was hot before, now he's on fire.

As he opens his lips to a swipe of Castiel's tongue, Dean hopes he won't burn up alive.

Then he closes his eyes to the onslaught.

This... isn't how he figured Castiel would kiss. There's nothing tentative or reverent about this, nothing short of hunger in the way the angel's fingers cup his face, grip his jaw, guide his head to deepen the kiss. Dean can feel a line of chill where his blood has smeared, can't bring himself to care when Castiel grapples for the hand Dean still has clenched around the door frame and locks it in a fist around his tie.

Words are whispered, muffled against Dean's mouth: “Reel me in.”

Not even thinking, Dean wraps the tie around his fist a few times and does.

Their lips crash together as Castiel staggers, knees buckling on either side of Dean's, into the seat, pressing him back. Dean falls against the bench seat, pulling Castiel on top of him. His other hand finds Castiel's hair. They breathe once, twice, then find one another again.

Dean hasn't ever made out with someone like this. Eager girls weigh less and eager men don't get the honor of fucking on Baby's seats. Castiel is a live mad thing atop him, one long sinuous grind every time he moves. He's pinning Dean in one straight line along the seat, knees stuffed in between the back and the steering wheel. Every roll of his hips against Dean's stokes the fire. Thin suit slacks and boxer briefs don't stand a chance. Castiel is hard, and Dean's cock is taking more interest in this than it has in much of anything lately.

Dean would chastise Mini-me but he's a little busy.

The kiss breaks. Dean is panting, trying to catch his breath and failing. Castiel's bloody thumb finds his swollen lower lip.

“I've always wanted to kiss you, Dean,” the angel grates. “These lips were made for it.”

Dean manages a laugh. “Thought you were gonna say something else.”

“That, too.” The smirk is back. “Shall I?”

“That's gonna cost you extra.”

Castiel dips his head to murmur against the lip he's still pressing. “Pretty please.”

He punctuates with a wriggle, grinding his cock harder into Dean's. A few more glancing blows like that and Dean is reduced to a bundle of incredulous need, bucking up into Castiel's unyielding embrace.

“You want it?” he says, mindless. “You got it.”

The rumble of a hum caught within Castiel's chest travels down Dean's fingers and up his arms. Castiel is moving, shifting higher, crawling within the tight confines until his knee pops free of the steering wheel. He's straddling Dean's chest, pinning Dean to the seat.

Dean rips his arms free and bats Castiel's fingers away from his fly. He's waited long enough to do this. The button comes away, he tears the zipper down, and digs like an animal through layers of fabric to get his hand on that hard line of heat.

He can hear Castiel chuckling above him.

He doesn't waste time admiring the cock in his hand. There will be plenty of time for that later. Dean is harder than he's been in ages and he knows that getting his mouth on Cas will get him off, too. It's been that long. This is that fucking hot.

With an urgent hand on Castiel's ass, Dean guides the length of him toward his mouth. He suckles eagerly at the head the moment he can, his eyes flickering closed when Castiel groans.

“Oh, Dean...” The angel sighs. “You really are perfect for this.”

Dean grunts and pulls him closer. Deeper. He can take it, he knows he can. No matter how long it's been. It's kind of like riding a bicycle, even though technically Cas is riding him. And he gives less than zero fucks about what this will do to his neck.

It's not that he's missed having a cock in his mouth, the taste or feel or anything, but knowing that finally -- _finally_ \-- he's got Castiel undone and inside him is fucking incredible. And the angel doesn't disappoint, letting fly the most wanton noises, moaning and bucking himself deeper toward Dean's throat. Dean lets him have it, all the technique he's ever possessed.

He wants Cas to have everything.

It's all he's ever wanted, really. Ever since he met the guy.

Ever since he tried to stab a strange brunet in the chest and it didn't take.

Ever since _“I can throw you back in.”_

Especially since losing Cas, again and again, to Leviathan and in Purgatory and when Dean went off the deep end --

Dean moans around his mouthful. _Oh, Castiel. I love you._

It's a good thing he's otherwise occupied. He might've said it aloud.

A hand cups the back of his head and pulls him closer, straining the muscles in his neck but opening him up further for Cas to hunch over and really give it to him. The head of the angel's slim cock slides in and out of Dean's throat, catching, filling him up and making it impossible for him to breathe. Dean doesn't care. His own cock pulses, blurting precome into his briefs. His head is spinning. Swimming.

Spots are dancing in the black behind his eyelids.

He works his tongue against the length, sucking hard, his lips buried in cloth and wiry curls. Castiel's scent is all around him, musk and the earth and something entirely alien. The same scent that was always on his coat.

“Dean,” Castiel grunts, “I want you to know --”

Dean lets out a garbled moan with what little breath he's got.

“I've always considered --”

He thrusts in deeper still, occupying all the empty spaces in Dean's head.

“-- you over Sam --”

_Wait, what?_

“-- for this sort of thing, ah, _ah!”_

Castiel punches in deep as he can and comes in a torrent down Dean's throat. Dean has no hope of tasting, or swallowing, or getting any oxygen while the angel's cock is swelling and pulsing within him. He whines through his nose with the last of his air and takes it. Just takes it.

He doesn't understand what he heard.

He's falling limp.

The back of his head strikes leather, and it nearly knocks him unconscious. He still can't breathe. His throat is full of viscous liquid cutting off both passageways.

Castiel is backing away, out the open door.

With graying vision, Dean stares up at Baby's ceiling, coughing at the nothingness there, trying to catch his breath. It's not working. The air is too thin. His lungs, too empty. He's going to pass out.

He can hear the angel putting himself back together, rustle of cloth and grate of the zipper. A quiet chuckle, like this was nothing more than momentary amusement.

Then Castiel is crawling back inside the car.

He nudges up, one knee between Dean's legs, rubbing at Dean's flagging erection. He's got Dean's arms pinned between his legs and the back of the seat. He lays himself over Dean, chest to chest, thumb still stained with Dean's dried blood stroking down the line of Dean's jaw. His face, both fond and amused, hovers close to Dean's. His eyes are so blue.

Dean blinks up at him. He doesn't understand, and he's so damn tired.

_Cas?_

The wrong, wrong smile is back. “Like I told you,” he says, his voice somehow too high. “This could be a good thing.”

He sits back. “Let me show you.”

His palm finds Dean's cock, and begins to massage it back to hardness.

“I'm not without mercy,” he says as he works. “I've never been without mercy. It's always been my intention to let you have this.

“And, I gotta admit, when you said you were attracted to Amara -- that's pretty hot.”

Dean whines. He's hard, so hard for Cas, but he doesn't like this. It's like a nightmare.

He must have fallen asleep in the car, that's it, and his brain has given him wrong-sounding Cas because his brain hates him. After all, his brain _is_ him, and Dean has always hated himself.

But this feels too real.

It feels -- fucking Christ, it feels good.

Castiel grins, hovering lower. Sliding backward. His, oh, his mouth is suddenly so close to Dean's cock that every exhale is a flush of warmth around him. Fuck. Dean is breathing now, but he's no more clear-headed for all of the hormones and heat and sheer fucking ecstasy coursing through him as Castiel leans down to mouth at Dean's cock through his underwear.

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs atop him. “Oh, Dean. This is better than I'd expected.”

There's a chill to Castiel's fingertips when he fishes Dean out of his fly. Dean makes a noise like a sob, his cock standing straight up, pulsing with his heartbeat. He's so fucking hard. He's never felt like this before, wanting so badly but so damn confused, every cell in his body screaming to get away from whatever, whoever this is on top of him.

But he bucks up into that grip, anyway. Lets out a moan through his teeth at the way Castiel's hand feels around him. He aches. He's ached for Cas for years, and no amount of weirdness will stop that now.

“Cas,” he groans. _Cas, please._

A wet flick of tongue to the head of his cock has him seizing up, nearly there.

“Cas!” he gasps blindly to the passenger side door, his back bowing up, the top of his head against the leather seat.

Castiel's molten mouth closes over him, and that's all she wrote.

“Ungh, _fuck!”_ Dean comes violently, stabbing himself into Castiel's mouth as far as he can. His orgasm roars down his veins like a train through a tunnel and into a storm. He's nearly crying, fuck, what? He's overcome. And Castiel milks him through it, slide after slide of tongue and lips and fingers sending new waves through his entire body. Dean mewls, lets it wrack him til he's spent.

He shudders.

It's over.

Hips working weakly, he misses Castiel instantly when the angel moves away. The air is cold on his spit-tacky skin. Dean feels small. Alone.

He wants to curl up with Cas in a bed. He wanted to do this in a bed, to make it last, not --

Not whatever it turned out to be.

Dean feels sick.

Rolling on to his side, balling up as much as he can, Dean hugs himself and tries not to think. He doesn't hear Castiel leave.

He doesn't begrudge himself the tears that leave chilly tracks down his face.

“Dean? Dean!”

The air gets a lot colder, fast. Dean snorts awake, sitting up, knocking his head hard against the ceiling, his knees against the wheel. He's sitting in the driver's seat, fully clothed and warm, his Baby's rumble cutting off as someone turns the key and yanks it out.

Sam, Sam turned the key, and Sam is shaking him with one huge hand on his shoulder. The other tosses the keys away and turns his face toward some very bright light.

Dean blinks, squints, swearing under his breath.

“You idiot!” Sam bellows. “Why would you sleep in the car when it's inside and fucking running?”

“Tryin' to kill myself,” Dean mumbles. He doesn't really mean it, he's just remembering something. Something awful happened. Somebody said that. Recently. His head is full of fuzz that makes it difficult to recall.

But Sam falls so still, he could be a corpse. “What did you say?”

“Nothin'.”

“Dean --”

“I was kidding, okay? Let it go.” Dean swivels himself out of the seat, bracing on the door frame. Sam is still there, large and warm and smelling of himself, something Dean's mind has always labeled 'home'. It's comforting.

Sam doesn't move. “It wasn't funny.”

“I know.”

He still doesn't move.

“I know, Sam, I just -- Look,” Dean snaps, “I've had a rough night, all right? Let me up.”

“Dean --”

“Let me the fuck up or you'll be nursing some busted junk.”

Sam backs away. He looks like Dean tried to shoot him.

Dean isn't sure what his life is anymore. None of it makes sense. He's got a foul taste in his mouth, and his mind is whirling on something half-remembered. He's pretty sure Cas was here. But what of that was a dream and what wasn't is too fuzzy to organize in his mind, let alone relate to anyone.

Let alone to Sam, who probably has him on suicide watch now. Fucking grand.

Hauling in a deep, cleansing breath, Dean blinks out across the garage. All of the Men of Letters' cars gleam in rows beneath the floodlights, each of them waiting patiently for a driver who will never return. Abandoned. It strikes a chord in Dean's heart. He doesn't want to do that to his Baby, leave her with no one -- well, she'd have Sam, but --

Fuck, he doesn't want to do that to Sam.

Fuck, it's _Sam_.

He's gotta tell him.

Bracing himself, Dean breathes deeper and looks at his brother, who now looks like he's about to cry.

“Sammy, I don't feel right anymore.”

“What? What do you mean?”

Man, that furrow in Sam's brow could hold an ocean. “I'm not trying to kill myself, just so you know. Never even crossed my mind. I just... I feel worn out. Run down. Not, uh. Right.”

“How long have you --”

“Dean?”

At the sound of Castiel's voice, Dean flinches. Hard. Sam blinks, scared for a second.

“Later,” Dean promises him gruffly. He grabs Sam's hand, squeezes once. “Not now.”

Then, forcing himself to let go, he turns.

“Hey, Cas.”

There's nothing out of place about the angel, nothing wrong at all. He looks at Dean with concern, and there's nothing of the smirk or nonchalance from last night. When Castiel steps closer, Dean steels himself against shying away, and meets those blue eyes like he figures he always has.

The angel peers up at him. “Dean, are you all right?”

He sounds normal. He looks normal. Last night was just a nightmare, all in Dean's head.

Dean relaxes.

With a smile he almost feels, like his heart isn't pounding right out of his chest, he says, “Yeah, Cas. I'm good.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Misha is doing an incredible job, but I hate Lustiel. So much. Writing this lowkey made me sick. Why write it, why post it, you may be asking? Because this damn show, that's why.
> 
> (I have a theory he could be Michael, and that's why he's so like Hallucifer -- why he appeared to Sam as young John, why Sam doesn't sense him -- and I like it because that would mean they didn't ruin s5 Lucifer after all. What do you think?)


End file.
